Cinderella
by sakuyavalentine
Summary: One-shot. Harry. Heather.


**Cinderella**.

"So I will dance with Cinderella.  
I don't want to miss even one song.  
'Cause all too soon the clock will strike midnight  
and she'll be gone."

- Steven Curtis Chapman – _Cinderella_

.

He wasn't sure how it happened. He wasn't sure it could happen. Not after what they'd been through, what he knew about her, about her past. He wasn't sure he could fall in love with her again; but he did. He supposed that was when you knew it was real. When love seemed the most unlikely reaction to another, when you'd gone to Hell and back and looked at them with disgust only for your heart to pang painfully and your body to respond whenever they needed you...

She was in her bedroom, unaware of his presence just outside the partially closed door, moving about at a pace and with determination one of her age should not concern herself with. She was cleaning her room, crawling along the bed in a pair of blue, denim overalls and an orange t-shirt, tucking the sheets of her "big girl" bed between the wall and the mattress and pulling them up over her pillows until they were flat and smooth. Then she arranged a series to toys along the headrest, from tallest to smallest, while leaving a ratty Robbie the Rabbit front and center because he was her favourite. Then she crossed the room, tidying the trinkets on her dresser counter and folding any shirts left strewn on the floor; not perfectly, mind you, but then again, she was only six.

As she worked, she occasionally wandered towards a small box sitting on the table beside her bed. The lid was open, displaying a figurine of a ballerina no taller than one's thumb, spinning in front of a mirror. When it grew silent, she would pick it up carefully and reach blindly for a knob in a groove on the bottom. She'd twist it a few times and put it back down and the room would fill with an almost haunting tinkling tune. Only then could she resume her chores.

Slowly – so not to scare the poor child – he pushed the door open, cradling a plastic basket of freshly cleaned clothes under his arm.

"Daddy!" she exclaimed, her face brightening from a sober stiffness to unbridled joy. She threw herself at his legs, for the top of her head barely reached his hip. He noticed her roots were growing in and decided to pick up some dye the next time he went to the grocery store.

She stood back as he knelt and divided the printed t-shirts and small shorts from his large jeans and sweaters and button-down shirts. She took the piles and stuffed them into her dresser drawers, or hung them on small hangers in the closet, always in a specific order – casual clothes with casual clothes, socks and underwear with other socks and underwear.

When they were finished, and the music box stopped playing, Harry took his daughter's small hand in his and guided her away from the bedroom, suggesting they take a walk and have lunch at a restaurant this afternoon. She readily agreed and stepped into a pair of Velcro sneakers with bulbs in the soles that lit up under pressure.

They walked down the streets of the small city, passing people with eyes cast down, or in deep conversation with friends, oblivious to the goings-on around them. Two cars were pulled over, a dent in one, and the drivers stood by the road, exchanging numbers and information.

Harry's eyes darted around, scanning the faces that went by. Whenever they passed by alleys or indoor parking lots, anywhere with dimmed lighting, his grip on Heather's hand tightened until she almost mewed in pain, and he pulled her just a little closer. She wondered if it had something to do with what happened last year, the reason they left Portland.

Eventually, they came to a fast food restaurant and shared cheeseburgers and fries and strawberry milkshakes in a booth near the window. Heather coloured and completed puzzles on a paper place mat with broken crayons and Harry would steal one from her pile and sketch a quick doodle in the corner.

When her food settled, she kicked off her sneakers and went into the ball pit, shooting down a tubular slide into a pool of hollow plastic red and yellow and blue balls. But it got boring soon and after twenty minutes, she climbed out and declared she was ready to go home.

As she approached the booth, she noticed a tall woman standing by the table with her arm around a little boy. The boy's attention seemed elsewhere, but the woman was smiling and Harry was smiling and they were both laughing. Heather's face warmed with jealousy and her brown eyes flared.

She marched up to the table and tapped her finger against the woman's rear. "Who are you?"

The woman seemed startled and began to answer, "I'm – "

But Heather cut her off before she could finish. "You can stop flirting. My Daddy has me; he doesn't need anyone else."

"Heather!" Red-faced, Harry rose from the table. He flashed an embarrassed smile. "I'm sorry. She's an only child and my wife has been dead for years. You know how kids are; they get jealous if someone else gets attention." Then he turned to Heather. "Honey, that was a rude thing to say. You should apologize to the nice lady."

Heather pressed her lips together and looked over his shoulder. The woman looked back expectantly. Obviously she didn't like being told off, much less from a child.

"I'm sorry you're a desperate, old lady," she said matter-of-factly.

Harry's eyes bulged and, scooping Heather up into his arms, he apologized again to the woman and pushed open the door. As it swung closed, Heather shouted back, "And I'm sorry my Daddy loves me more than you!"

She sensed her father's frustration as they followed the sidewalks back to their apartment. She ran her small hands through his hair, noticing with youthful curiosity that it was going grey near his ears. Then her attention was directed towards a loose thread in his sweater and she tugged on it until it appeared it might begin to unravel. A bird darted into the trees and she followed it with her eyes, smiling when she saw a next of babies all chirping and awaiting a meal of wiggling earth worms.

"Daddy, are you mad?" she asked.

He laughed hauntingly. "Oh yes. You're in big trouble when we get home, little lady."

She frowned. "Why? You always told me never to lie. I didn't say anything that wasn't true." She scratched her cheek. "And she was flirting with you."

"That doesn't give you the right to be rude," he commented. He rifled through his pocket, through loose change and train ticket stubs until he found his keys.

She didn't understand; he'd been married once to a woman he loved. She was taken from him too soon, but Cheryl helped him move on, rather than wasting away in a mourning rut. Though he was far from old – he was chugging along, but he had a good decade or two left – and women often glanced his way with a grin or stopped to chat at the bookstore, he had no desire to date again. He was a one love kind of man. Besides, Heather took up enough time as it was.

He put her down once they were inside the apartment and the door was shut and locked. She shuffled her feet and clasped her hands behind her back. Harry towered over her with his hands on his hips and his face displaying his disproval. "You know better than to act like that, Heather. I don't care what that woman was doing, that's no way to behave."

Heather was silent. There was nothing for her to say. She had no excuse, other than that she was jealous. She didn't want anyone taking Harry away from her because...

"Sometimes I think you hate me," she stated quietly and shuffled her weight from one foot to the other in an attempt to appease her father's anger with a look of sad innocence. "When people like that show up, I'm afraid you're going to leave me because you hate me. I don't want to be alone."

In an instant, all of Harry's anger disappeared and was replaced by guilt and sadness for his daughter. She was an amalgamation of Alessa and Cheryl's thoughts and experiences while the last several years have given her more of her own. He realized he'd never considered before that it might be hard for her to handle. Could she sense the bitterness he'd felt upon the loss of "Cheryl"? Did she know of the disgust he'd felt learning Alessa had birthed a demonic god? Created a town of nightmares? He hated himself for radiating such thoughts. Heather was not Alessa Gillespie. She was Heather Morris, her own person with her own feelings. And he was a terrible father for ever allowing her to think he felt anything but unconditional love for her.

He dropped to his knees and enveloped his daughter in his arms. She was small and warm and yielded easily; she always found sanctuary in his embrace.

"Oh Heather, how could you even think such a thing?" he breathed and buried his face in her fruity hair. She smelled of childhood innocence. Of purity. Of home. "I love you more than anything in the world. Nothing and no one is ever going to change that, do you understand?"

She drew back slightly and stared into his eyes, searching for truth, while tears she didn't understand filled her own. "Promise?"

Harry nodded slowly. He'd faced the rings of Hell for her already, stared into the deepest realms of his own – and Alessa's – nightmares. He'd fought for his life, made sacrifices and murdered, all to keep her safe; and until he drew his last breath, he would continue to.

After his wife died, his life ceased to hold any meaning. But then he realized Cheryl – and all of her selves – needed him. He wasn't going to let her down. "I promise."

.

**Disclaimer: **All _Silent Hill_ characters belong to Konami.

**Author's Notes: **I wanted to write a little something showing Harry and Cheryl/Heather's relationship because they're one of my favourite parent-child (and I don't mean incestuous) couples. Perhaps this and my other Harry + Heather fan fic (up shortly) can be early Father's Day fics?


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